


L'Histoire du Soldat

by twinkfloyd



Series: Outlandos d'Amour [2]
Category: The Police (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 08:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19205917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinkfloyd/pseuds/twinkfloyd
Summary: Part 2 (Part 1) of Outlandos d'Amour. Gordon makes a friend, for what it's worth. Stewart makes an enemy.





	L'Histoire du Soldat

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at a bit of a crossroads with this one, while I hope it doesn't end up as long as the boatfic though we're already at about 12,000 words so if anything it's going to be much longer, I've got some things planned out and others not at all. Should I keep this a rare gen fic without any pairings whatsoever or make it an incredibly drawn out slowburn. Send in your votes! Violence yes, sexually explicit content would still be a no. (but if you want to write it for me be my guest)
> 
> (fic art) (by me cos no one does me any favors) https://66.media.tumblr.com/d752c378789079d779da83418ced3356/tumblr_pt3ygzwvoM1udf0j4o1_1280.jpg

Winter 1813

 

“ _Fight the French, beat the frogs, ‘ave at ‘em boys, show ‘em that good ol’ British what for_ \- so I thinks, alright, I got what it takes. I’m a keen shot knockin’ off foxes pecking aroun’ the hen house and I give these bastards a taste for English lead. I volunteer, I get me uniform, I get sent out to bolster the troops… ‘Ow long have we been fightin’ the fuckin’ French. We’re not even in France- bleedin’ Portugal.” 

“I dunno, I rather like Portugal. Can’t understand a thing they say but they’re decent folk, I think.”

“Well that’s nice but I personally joined the military to shoot friends before I make them but you enjoy your holiday while we watch the continent get taken over!”

“Oh now you’re just being a negative nancy I say tha-”

“-Ten years.”

“What?” 

“We’ve been fighting the French for ten years now, declared war in ‘03. Might be fightin’ them for ten more. Might die tomorrow. Who’s to say.”

The soldier’s sobering comment seemed to take the wind out of both of their sails, leaving the other men somewhat deflated. Over the course of ten years, of course, a few months in Portugal was a drop in the bucket. Still-

It wasn’t… _ideal_ , but they weren’t down and out yet. Following a shameful slinking retreat, a portion of the English army had wintered in the tip of Europe, suffering a miserable Iberian winter- though nothing to be compared to Napoleon’s catastrophically ill-advised attempt on Russia. With the coming spring, Wellington and the allied forces began their awaited return and headed north.

Slogging through Los Montes de León in the lousy March weather however was not what this batch of new recruits had in mind for a good time. This particular offscouring of society doubly so had the misfortune of serving under a gnarled old commander who yearned for the good old days of wanton corporal punishment for any petty offense, the memories of which were seemingly the only thing keeping his leathery corpse animated out of pure spite. Several fellow cadavers caught mid-decomposition to be refitted with new boots (nothing short of a miracle) seemed to be just functioning out of a similar dull rage, sneering at the new blood, not quite disenchanted with the realities of war just yet, but on the fast track to that step of their training. A cold rain began to spatter their faces, then proceeded to show the same lack of respect to anything else that dared stand in its way, deepening into a downpour. Honestly they could have stayed at home and had just as much fun. 

Gordon sighed, wishing he were back in Newcastle. Joining the army at the time had been a promising alternative to continuing the dreary cycle of work his father had bequeathed unto him as his father had to him. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with carrying on in the humble business of dairy, everyone needed milk, his father’d say. But if he had gone down that path with him, he could see down it right to the end. 

Like this one spot on their route, a now weedy, thin dirt road that had once led to a house, since washed away, trailing to the sea like a sad story with no ending, only grey oblivion. If he’d gone down this path, he could see his entire future before him, every day in perfect detail. He’d seen this life before, in the man who hoisted crates of rattling bottles beside him, went home, ate his meal, slept, and began the cycle anew. Gordon still had his ambitions of youth, the corruptions of education, he’d not just heard of that world beyond himself, but lusted for it with an irrepressible, edacious hunger.

War may have been a good way to see another country but it didn’t make him feel particularly patriotic. Since joining the most action he’d seen was roughing up a few locals in a tavern one night when a few of the new recruits had slipped off, after some drink, feeling all emboldened and vainglorious, they imposed themselves upon the purported enemy. It was a little shameful now to think of it in fuzzy memories that weren’t all the long ago, the initial high of superiority wore off quickly after being reprimanded by their actual superiors. The shame of abusing this notion of power set in later for those of them with conscience. There were still times it was a challenge to temper himself with that alleged conscience, so Gordon kept it in his breast pocket, a little journal for his guilts and pities, his astute yet poignant commentary- he rather fancied himself a war poet, hopefully one of the greats, whether he lived or not (though he had no intentions of becoming a martyr, he hadn’t yet crossed it off his career path). 

 

“Ya good with a shot laddie?” 

“Ummmmm.” Gordon eyeballed the barrel of the rifle they handed him cautiously as if it’d go off in his hands. 

The Major pinched the bridge of his nose turning on his heel for a second then stiffly facing him again as he threw his hand back by his side. “Fucking useless- You ever fire a gun before?”

“...No sir,” he admitted with the succinctness of someone who knew he’d be punished either way for poor performance. Best not to say anything, or as little as possible. Attempts to ameliorate his profound lack of experience did little to appease an unsympathetic ear. 

While the officer bemoaned the state of the English army and the drunks and cutthroats and wet-eared hayseeds they had to take in merely to bolster the size of the infantry and provide a few more ready-made corpses to toss at the enemy, Gordon’s attention drifted to another one of the trainees readying his aim- an oddly familiar teenager he’d seen before in glimpses about his age with sharp features and long russet curls that spilled from its queue. He watched as he aligned the musket with his body, posed like a leopard waiting to pounce, and he must have caught him staring because he broke his concentration for some reason. Glancing Gordon’s way, he gave him an almost imperceptible wink, his private invitation to the show, before releasing his shot. Bullseye. Damned show off.

“I said Sumner are you listening!? I swear the Devil take ye boy, HERE.” The older man snatched his gun from him and thrust it back in his arms in what was apparently the correct position and lining him up, smacked him on the back of his head and marched away. “Now try ‘n hit the broad side of this barn- GOOD GOD how did they ever let you in I swear if they’re not convicts they’re about as bright as pickled herring.”

Fumbling with the barrel as he prepared the gun for another shot, Gordon considered how this might be easier without someone barraging him close quarters. Still, aiming when they shot was a bit of a new thing for the English Army, of course there was some anxiety around it. In their situation really, beggars couldn’t be choosers, even after supplanting their number with those of their allies, they were still vastly outnumbered. He was probably no better or worse than any other soldier. There, a hit. He’d barely winged the target but no one could stop him from cheering for this small victory. 

This seemed to be enough for the old major as well, as he left him alone with a resigned grumble after that. A few of the others performed to similar expectations, save for the kid with the lucky aim, but he’d disappeared already, having fulfilled his requirements. Still, he was a little curious, and approached one of the officers. “Sir?” “Hm-” He searched for his name a minute, “Sumner?” Gordon curtly nodded in affirmation. 

“I was just wondering but I saw a young man earlier- small, skinny, face like a dog in need of a meal, perhaps takes himself too seriously, good shot though.” 

“Yeah I saw how you missed that first target by a country mile, looking for pointers?” 

He ignored this comment, “I wanted to know who he was is all, get a better idea of whom exactly I’m supposed to be fighting alongside.”

Glancing around to try and see who he was referring to the officer tapped his chin in thought, “I’m not _sure_ but I’m inclined to say that’s the Brig’s kid you’re talkin’ about, Copeland. Cheeky, bit of a show off?”

“Yeah that’s him,” Gordon noted. 

The officer raised his eyebrows smirking, “What, you wanna me to introduce you two?”

“The name’s just fine…” he bit his tongue, “Excuse me I have to return some artillery,” and Gordon pushed past the other man in search of this face to a name.

 

Stewart Copeland was a thin, awkward youth, small for his age, which made him look even younger. ‘About 16’, it had read, all they knew for sure was that Stewart was the youngest of Colonel, now Brigadier, Copeland’s children- many lads falsified their information, either joining out of necessity or pride and other manly eagerness to fight. Chances were this was not the case in spite of the boy’s piss and vinegar disposition. 

The Brigadier’s recent promotion had not quite secured his family’s comfort and safety so much as thrust yet another into the fray. This one was the headstrong belligerent type whose adamant individualism boded poorly for military life, granted, the elder Copeland had been just the same way, as had his elder brother, Ian, a sergeant who’d been on the front for a few years now. And all of it, was not without some wicked irony, the condition of the American-born Brit. True, he’d fought with the English before, but he’d been spying for the Americans. Evidently her French brothers in arms were another case altogether. 

Copeland Sr (Jr) had praised his youngest’s talent on horseback but admitted if they didn’t make any headway with breaking _him_ in, to resign him to drummer-boy. And that would seem to be the fate of him, not due to any lack of ability or difficulty learning, but that personality defect they’d been warned of. Still, he took some perverse pleasure in the modicum of freedom and control he had been granted in setting the pace for the company that and more importantly, everyone having to listen to him. That theory firmly settled him somewhere between an inferiority complex and megalomania. If ever in his service he received a promotion, he might get a bigger drum. Something to look forward to. 

 

Most days were a long monotonous march starting at dawn and ending when it became too dark to keep track of one’s feet in front of him. The rough terrain made slow progress north, especially with the carts and horses to consider, having to frequently stop and pry them from ditches and potholes worsened by the spring rains. Up here you had to be careful for flash floods and mudslides coming down the hillside that could easily wipe out an entire caravan so the marches grew shorter but no less difficult. 

Had they gone through the plains of the interior, they’d probably already be in France by now, but there was the secondary concern of the French themselves. Here they were supposed to liberate the captured commands, but their specific focus was to take back the sea on the Bay of Biscay. From there, they could more easily receive supplies and other ships and possibly intercept others. Anyways that’s what they were supposedly doing, what they were actually preoccupied with was, as aforementioned, a long, soul-sucking hike. 

“Can you stop that, we’re supposed to be marching not having a fit in the mud,” a soldier groused slogging through the furrows left behind the carts as rain deepened their trough. 

Copeland must have not heard, or cared, because the frenetic drumming only grew louder and faster. 

At the back of the train Gordon shifted his heavy pack grumbling, just another irritation on top of many. He would have begged a French brigade to crop up out of nowhere and blast them full of holes if just for something to do. They’d yet to come across any battles and was itching for a fight, any concerns about shortcomings as a soldier were unfounded. A young man could make three times as much in the factories AND you didn’t have to walk a hundred miles in wet boots. The pounding beat of the envoy mingled with the rhythm of the rain in an endless feedback loop. 

Gordon squinted through the drizzle up ahead at the musicians in the lead, recognizing the drummer as the sharpshooter who’d piqued his interest curiously enough. Wonder what the hell he’s so chipper about. Steeling himself, he pushed ahead, snaking his way through the ranks towards him. “Hey- You!” 

There was a bit of a clatter, the drums faltering as Stewart ducked before peering over his shoulder, one of the new recruits jogging towards him with a wave. Regathering himself, he resumed the uniform, deliberate tattoo of an army march, staring straight ahead at the thin twisting road laid out before them.

“I saw you the other day ‘n training, you’re a real good shot.” Gordon caught up with him breathlessly clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

He raised his brows but smiled, pleased to hear something nice. “I know- not all of us can be.”

Well then… “You look too young to have ever served before- where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Gordon recovered, conceding he could probably learn a thing or two from him though it was odd how he was actually an army musician rather than infantry like him. It’d probably serve everyone better if they traded places, at least he could keep a steady beat. 

“Beginner’s luck?” He offered after a long pause. Liar, he’d made sure Gordon had been watching, he wanted to impress him. Perhaps it had worked too well and now here he was trying to play the shrinking violet, lucky my ass. He tried to remember what the other officer had said to him, he’d definitely had training prior to this while Gordon had been milking cows. Funny how you didn’t encounter too many cattle on the battlefield, well apart from the ones who stood on two legs. 

 

“So Copeland, you’re the Brigadier’s son.”

“A brigadier,” he shrugged indifferent to the statement. “And it’s Stewart, you’re not an officer so say my name.”

Gordon cocked an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned in closer looking for real answers. “Okay. Stewart. So what is it... They feed you better, give you better quarters?” 

Stewart made no comment, eyes still fixed forward, the older boy beginning to pry further than he’d invited him to, and wondered where he was going with this. He must have noticed some reservation and took it as a point of contention. “Keep tucked away from all the scary fighting so you don’t get hurt?”

“No?” Gordon raised his eyebrows at his agitation idly twisting the knife, the drums starting to pick up pace again. “No not before you get to brag about your conquests with the rest of the aristocrats back home at the manor? You’re too soft to be a real soldier, look at your hands… Not much of a drummer either- _you’re supposed to keep the beat you know_.” 

“Fuck off!” Stewart stopped butting up against him, “You see me hauling my ass through this shit with the rest of you bloody bastards, no I don’t get no goddamn special treatment. No one cares and neither do I-” he demonstrated every swear he knew, dark ringed eyes glowering. Gordon found himself stifling a laugh, unsure of how to react, this boy’s peculiar accent creeping through his tirade. Then again a number of the men said the same about him, even the Scot or two amongst their number. 

“Special treatment. So, you don’t consider how the officers go gentle, let you off easy, stop themselves from _disciplining_ you special treatment? Me maybe, but an officer’s son? What if news got back that they’d been abusing daddy’s little runt, wouldn’t look good for their career- admit it, you’re still just a spoiled brat, even in the shit with the rest of us.”

Stewart’s nostrils flared and a bony fist cracked across his face.

 

“Ow, fuck, stop that I just got it to stop bleeding!”

“I’m just trying to help, you have to push it back into place or its gonna set all wrong.” 

Gordon grimaced, gingerly touching his nose again and flinching as another pair of hands closed around his, grabbing the swollen cartilage and wrenching it back into place. Gordon screamed as another spurt of blood poured out of the torn capillaries. Stewart winced but held up a damp rag to help sop up the mess. “Calm down, it just bleeds a lot cos it’s a face wound- got a lot of little blood vessels under the skin, you’re not going to die.”

“Funny the first bloodshed you’ve seen on the field is your own Sumner,” one of the men chuckled walking past the two fussing over each other.

“You shud yer moud basderb oh awl show you bloodsheb.” He threatened him, Stewart cackling at his display.

“You know, I like you better with a broken nose. Gives you more personality.”

“Oh danks,” he rolled his eyes, lifting the rag back to his face, “Was it worth a month of latrine dudies?”

Stewart mused beaming, “Yeah. Even that was worth getting you to shut up about me being some privileged lilywhite. By the which I’m sure daddy would be pleased to know I was digging shit every morning- ’d say it builds character.”

“Personalidy.” Gordon added managing a lopsided smirk.

Stewart gave him a feeble shove, “Yeah, personality. Anyways I’m going to turn in so I can wake up bright n early for the new job. Consider this an apology I didn’t tell em you started it, I for one, like my nose and would rather I kept it that way.” 

As he retreated to his tent, Gordon couldn’t help but laughing. Guess this meant they were friends now. If he was planning to kill him in his sleep though, he’d probably take his chances.


End file.
